


The Bastard Sons

by shiveringpinkala (aquachampagne)



Series: Knights of Salt and Mettle [1]
Category: Band of Brothers, The Pacific (TV)
Genre: (some), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Atom Bombs, Army vs Marine Corps, Beginning of Beautiful Friendships, Getting to Known Each Other, Invasion of Japan AU, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, This part includes:, Training Montages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:08:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25167475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquachampagne/pseuds/shiveringpinkala
Summary: Invasion of Japan AU"Who the hell are they?"Gene glanced over to where Bill was pointing. Men in clean uniforms were filing off the docked transport ship in neat rows. As they watched, a couple of the men stumbled in the thick sand, falling to their knees, and had to be pulled upright by their buddies."Who the hell cares? New batch of cannon fodder," Snafu answered, eyes no longer boring into Gene and not bothering to look up from where he was now using his K-Bar to pick at his fingernails like some over the top Marine cliché.Gene squinted. "I think it's the Army," he said.
Relationships: Andrew A. "Ack-Ack" Haldane/Edward "Hillbilly" Jones, Babe Heffron/Eugene Roe, Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs, George Luz/Joseph Toye, Joseph Liebgott/David Kenyon Webster, Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters, Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge, Robert Leckie/Bill "Hoosier" Smith, Wilbur "Runner" Conley/Lew "Chuckler" Juergens
Series: Knights of Salt and Mettle [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823197
Comments: 55
Kudos: 151





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> It's come to this, my friends. 
> 
> For context, here's the exact note I wrote myself at 4 am when I thought of this idea: _The nukes are never developed and they have to invade Japan. It’s a goddamned nightmare._
> 
> So, I've screwed with canon a bit, because while I'm here, I might as well save the life and limb (of some) of my favorites because I can, so I did. If you read something then think to yourself 'wtf?' then know it's probably because I rewrote that bit of history for my own machinations. 
> 
> As this is the first part; it's mostly characters from the two theaters of war getting thrown together for training purposes, learning to deal with one another and coming to terms with the idea that shit is going down and they can't avoid it. Pairings (of which there are a lot, I know. But it's my AU, so there) play a major role, but so does the actual war throughout the series, which ultimately is going to have 4 Arcs. **The Bastard Sons** is Arc 1. 
> 
> Feel free to ask me any questions you might have about any of this either in the comments or on tumblr under the same name (shiveringpinkala). 
> 
> I don't have a beta - so all mistakes are mine. Title is from Dar Williams _If I Wrote You_. (Which is part of my offical-unoffical playlist for the series)

**June 2, 1945  
Austria**

“They _what_?” Nix’s hand stopped halfway to his mouth, flask all but forgotten, “Are you serious?” 

Dick’s expression pinched and that condescending look Nix was so bizarrely fond of was thrown his way. “Would I joke about this?” 

“No, you wouldn’t,” Nix conceded then glanced down at his whiskey and took a longer drink than he had intended initially. He rubbed at his eyes, suddenly exhausted beyond measure. “What’s the new gold standard?” 

Dick hesitated. “105,” he bit out finally. 

Nix felt his eyes widen. _Jesus fuck_ , he thought. “Are you serious?” He asked again. “Maybe you read it wrong.” 

Dick huffed, dropped the missive onto the table and slid it across to Nix. “If you want to read it yourself, be my guest, Nix.” 

Picking up the war department’s decree as if it were a bomb (it kind of was), he skimmed through the words quickly, picking out the relevant passages – _Necessary points for discharge raised, redeployment to Pavuvu, grateful for contributions, blah, blah,_ **blah** – Nix digested all of it, setting it back down when he was finished. He glanced over at Dick, who was pacing the enclosed area with a rigidity that belied how pissed he was. 

“That might be the biggest crock of shit I’ve read all war,” Nix smiled wryly, “And I was in intelligence, so that’s impressive.” 

Dick didn’t laugh. Not that he really expected him too, but the grave cantor to his face stayed firmly fixed in place. Nix sighed, sitting forward. “Dick,” he said. 

“They can’t do this,” he muttered, his roving gaze landed on Nix, brows turned downward, “Can they?” 

“It’s the Army,” he waved a hand, “they can do whatever they want.” 

Dick made an inarticulate noise at that. Nix leaned back again, resuming his vigil of Dick’s marching. “Thought you wanted to go to the Pacific,” he offered. 

“I didn’t _want_ to go to the Pacific,” Dick argued, “besides, that’s not the point and you know it.” 

He did know it. Dick was perfectly comfortable taking one for the team and throwing himself on a grenade as long as none of his men would be asked to do the same. It was one of his more enduring – and infuriating – qualities. “What do you want to do?” 

“ _Is_ there anything we can do?” Dick asked, voice rich with plaintive fury.

Nix hated that tone on Dick. It reminded him of standing near a riverbank in Haguenau and having to answer Sink’s questions because Dick had one foot in the direction of the kind of apoplectic fit that would’ve brought the rest of the city’s crumbling infrastructure down. “Refuse the orders? Go AWOL?” He suggested, shrugging. 

He didn’t mention that both of those responses would end in a jail sentence at best and at the end of a firing squad at worst; they were both well aware of that. 

Dick slowed, then stopped, standing in the middle of the floor, arms hanging at his sides in helplessness. “It’s not right,” he said eventually; a declarative statement of fact, but his tone was sad and resigned. 

Nix hummed. “No,” he said, “it’s not.” 

Dick turned to him; what little color he’d gotten in the Austrian sun had been leeched out of him. Even his hair seemed a duller shade of red. Nix’s heart turned over in a painful thump. “Do you want me to tell the guys?” He asked, suddenly desperate to take some of the burden from Dick’s shoulders. 

Dick thought about it for barely a second before shaking his head. “No, I’ll tell them,” he glanced over at Nix and finally offered him a tiny uptick of his lips, “you can tell Harry.” 

“Christ,” Nix said after the weight of that registered, pulling a face that spread the smile on Dick’s face into something that could almost be dignified with the title, “Let’s hope he doesn’t kill the messenger,” he added. 

They let the silence envelope the room; digging its oppressive claws into the walls with all the things that neither of them wanted to really acknowledge. 

Nix drummed his knuckles on the table. “So,” he said, “Japan, huh?”

Dick sighed. “Japan,” he echoed. He walked over to the chair next to Nix and slid into the seat, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.

Nix took another drink.


	2. I. Welcome to the (New) War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this along with the prologue to give it some heft. Also, I seriously underestimated how many characters there are in the combined canon of Band of Brothers and The Pacific, so know that I'll get around to a lot of them eventually, and each chapter will have multiple POV's. 
> 
> This chapter is mostly a few snapshots so that you know where all the guys are; little slices of (war) life if you will. There is also a lot more swearing in this than I anticipated? F bombs everywhere, seriously. Warnings for the occasional canon typical language that is used, so beware for that as well. If that bothers you, I get it and I'm genuinely sorry; I promise it's not prevalent. 
> 
> ~~as a side note, i cannot believe i'm doing this to myself pray for me~~

**July 1, 1945  
Pavuvu**

Leckie stepped into the ramshackle tent, looked out and down and promptly got into a staring contest with a crab. The crab was smack dab in the middle of the walkway between bunks and when it noticed Bob, it raised its claws and got on it’s haunches as if to say _yeah, and what are you gonna do about it?_

“What the fuck am I doing here?” He asked, throwing it out into the void. 

“Blocking the fucking doorway apparently. Move your ass, Lucky,” the void answered in Hoosier’s unimpressed accent; accompanied by a less-than-gentle shove forward. 

Leckie swung his head around to glare at the other man, which went unseen because Hoosier ignored him completely in favor of dropping his bag next to one of the bunks and flinging his body down on the bare, threadbare mattress with a grunt. 

“Thanks for that,” he ground out, throwing his things on the bunk next to Hoosier’s sprawled body. 

Hoosier, eyes closed, gave a lazy salute. “Happy to help,” he mumbled. 

Leckie rolled his eyes and sat. “How are you doing?” 

“No.” 

“No? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means no, Leckie,” the arm Hoosier had thrown over his eyes lifted slightly; enough for one blue eye to glare at him balefully, “it means I ain’t talking about it.” 

“Fine, Jesus,” Leckie muttered, but there was a kind of calming familiarity to the blond’s recalcitrance that actually settled some of the raw jitters that he’d been repressing since he’d left the hospital and boarded the transport ship. The sun set in the west, _The Count of Monte Cristo_ was infinitely better than _The Three Musketeers_ , Hoosier was kind of a dick. All was right with the world. 

He scoffed to himself, remembering why he was back on this godforsaken hellhole and amended that last thought to as right as it can be when the world has lost its mind, anyway. 

The flimsy door slammed open and Runner ducked through it – he always forgot how easy it was to do that, and it was always in direct contrast to the careful way Chuckler did so – scowl firmly planted on his face. “Thanks for waiting, assholes,” he threw at them, dragging his duffel to the bunk opposite Hoosier’s. 

“Where’s the rest of your things?” Leckie asked, ignoring the well-earned jab. 

The frown embedded itself even deeper in his tan face. “Chuckler’s got it.” 

“Why is –” 

“Hey, a little help here?” The aforementioned man asked, poking his head into the tent. At his feet lay his own packs and Runner’s trunk. Runner made a move and Chuckler pointed forbiddingly, “Not you. Luck, get over here,” he jerked his head in Bob’s direction. Runner threw his arms up and then crossed them irritably. 

“Make Hoos do it,” Leckie complained, walking over without any real thought despite the gripe, to take Runner’s trunk and put it in front of the bunk he’d claimed. 

“Or I could carry my own goddamned stuff,” Runner cut in, kicking the trunk over six inches. 

Chuckler shrugged good-naturedly. “It’s fine. You shouldn’t be carrying that much weight yet, anyway.” 

“Are you a doctor now? Is that it?” Runner huffed as he settled his things. 

Chuckler brushed the hostility aside. “No,” his voice had the steady, even tone of someone who’d had this argument already, “but you were shot. In the arm. Not to mention your leg. There’s no reason to rush it.” 

Runner leveled an impressive look of doom at him. “I was shot almost _eight months ago_.” 

“But the infection –” 

“For fuck’s sake,” Leckie heard Hoosier mutter, “Just let him carry whatever the hell he wants,” he pitched his voice above the bickering, “makes him feel like a good beau.” 

The two men went abruptly silent and then Runner narrowed his eyes, reached behind his body and threw the ratty pillow that he grabbed off his bunk at Hoosier. Beside him, Chuckler went beet red and sputtered out some nonsense that Leckie didn’t try to piece together; too busy letting the cacophony of voices slide over him and take away the last of his built-up tension. 

He sat back down and noticed the crab from earlier was peeking out from behind Runner’s trunk. While he was watching, it held one claw aloft and snapped out at him with it. 

_Yeah, fuck you too, buddy_ , he thought and began to unpack. 

\- - - - - 

**July 22, 1945  
Honolulu, Hawaii**

Hawaii had the bluest water that Babe had ever seen. 

The Atlantic was choppier and more of a navy shade that made the foreboding of the ocean even more ominous. The Pacific – what he’d seen so far, anyway – was more of a crystalline blue with sun dappled diamonds glittering on top of the waves. (Admittedly, the ever-present sun was probably one of the main reasons for the difference between the two oceans). It was beautiful; beautiful enough that – initially – he’d had a hard time imagining a war taking place in the middle of it. 

( _Their first day here, to a man, they’d decided they had an obligation to visit Pearl Harbor. To their horror, the remains of the **Arizona** and **Oklahoma** had still been entirely visible; sticking out of the shores like shattered monuments to the attack. Babe had stared at the latter and thought about the men who had been trapped in the capsized vessel waiting for a rescue that happened too late for a lot of them. It wasn’t so hard to imagine a war occurring there after that._) 

Now, they’d retreated to the opposite side of the city where a transport ship was due to whisk them off to Pavalulu or Pavavu or some such place so they could join said war. If he thought about it too much, it was depressing as hell. 

He tried not to think about it too much. 

“Jesus,” Bill dropped down in the sand next to him, jamming an elbow into his ribs as he did. 

“Watch it,” Babe squawked. 

Bill rolled his eyes. “Watch yourself,” he looked out at the shoreline, “Jesus,” he said again, this time with more awe in his voice, “View is almost worth the sand I’ve got in every fucking nook of everything I own.” 

Babe winced at that. In the two days they’d been there, sand had become a natural enemy. That probably could’ve been mitigated, but none of them were actually capable of resisting the beaches call, so sand. He brushed a few granules sticking to his legs and conceded the point. “How’d you find me, anyway?” 

Bill side-eyed him, then scoffed. “Ain’t that difficult,” he flickered his finger on Babe’s temple, “followed the blinding glare from your hair.” 

Babe shoved him – hard – while Bill cackled at his affronted expression. He looked back down the ocean’s edge where most of the company was lounging around being lazy. By pure instinct, his eyes stopped on Gene; pants rolled up, bare arms spread out and face turned upward. The perfect picture of a supplicant worshipping the sun’s presence. Babe curled his fingers in the material of his pants without conscious thought; one more measure to keep from reaching out and touching. He’d spent more time than he cared to think about watching Gene soak up the heat since they’d landed. 

To be fair, all the Southern boys had turned into some kind of lizard-man hybrid the minute they touched California and hadn’t stopped since. Shifty had even fallen asleep on the beach the first afternoon and Tab had hauled a discarded beach umbrella they’d found over to him so he wouldn’t get burnt to badly. Almost everyone was running around without shirts, barefoot and pants rolled up as high as they could get them. The only consistent exceptions were Babe and Marlark who slathered on sunscreen whenever they journeyed down to the waves. Winters probably would’ve too, if command ever let him go long enough to get to the beach. 

( _Yesterday, while they were out swimming, a shark had gotten into the shallows where they were and scared the bejesus out of everyone. Well. Almost everyone. Web had laughed, delighted grin lighting up his face and exclaimed, “A Reef Whitetip!” and actually took two steps towards the damned thing before Lieb had grabbed his arm and forcibly yanked him back to shore with the rest of the guys. The screaming match that followed was one of the more bizarre and entertaining ones the two had had since Web’s return._ ) 

Still, nothing beat the sight of watching the layers of tight worry and pale, forced stoicism peel away from Gene’s body, as if he was shedding his old, torn skin for a newer, lighter one. Since Austria, his smiles were easier to come by and he’d even heard him outright laugh at something Skip had said on the boat over. It was nice to see before they shipped off to whatever hell the Pacific theater would throw at them. 

He tried not to think about that too much either. 

“—‘bout 1200 hours, I guess.” 

Babe tore his eyes away and looked at Bill. “What’d you say?” 

Bill glared. “I said,” his tone implying how brain dead he thought Babe was for not hearing him the first time, “enjoy it while you can because we’re leavin’ tomorrow. Around 1200.” 

“No shit,” Babe blinked, not really surprised, but still a little thrown, “that soon, huh?” 

“Heard Lip telling Johnny and Bull,” Bill shrugged, “probably for the best. Gonna get soft sitting out here to long.” 

Babe knew Bill didn’t actually believe that, but the underlining sentiment was sound. The war was still going and they were going with it; it was best not to forget that on Hawaii’s forgiving shores. He nodded. “Sure, I hear ya.” 

Bill clapped him on the shoulder and stood back up. “Get out of the sun before you turn into a fucking lobster alright?” 

“Fuck you,” he said to Bill’s back as sauntered away, waving a hand at Babe behind him as he went. 

Babe sighed and glanced back at where Gene had been, but the medic was already gone. 

\- - - - - -

**August 10, 1945  
Pavuvu**

Gene dropped the letter into his lap, unsure how to feel. 

Snafu, who had been watching him out of the corner of his eye the whole time he sat reading, pounced on the movement. “Something wrong, Sledgehamma?” 

“Sid says they’re recalling him to active duty,” he answered, voice sounding void of emotion even to his own ears. He caught the baffled look pass over Snaf’s face and rolled his eyes, “Sid. My friend? I’ve mentioned him before.” 

Snafu shrugged. “Probably,” he agreed, “don’t listen to everything that falls out of your mouth, do I?” 

Burgie, sitting across from them both and dozing, snorted at that. “That’s a bold-faced lie.” 

Snafu sent a dark look his way even though the other man couldn’t see it. “Makes sense though,” he continued, eventually looking back at Gene, “can’t invade anyplace without enough meat to do it. And the Jap homeland’s gonna take a whole lotta meat.” 

That was what Gene worried about. Sid had gotten out, was safe, and hadn’t seen any action since before Peleliu; the last year had been a quagmire of blood and rot and terror and he wasn’t sure his friend was going to be expecting how much worse it had gotten. There’d been a hope – slim and faltering, but alive – that Okinawa would be the end of it. That that godforsaken pit of hell would be the last any of them would see of these damned islands. It was made abundantly clear a week or so later that that was not to be the case and they were headed back to Pavuvu (traded out for stationed Navy and replacement Marine’s to hold the island) to begin training for the invasion of Japan itself. A few men had lost it then and there; the ones barely holding on in the wake of Okinawa losing the grasp of their facilities with the confirmation that something bigger and badder was on the horizon. Gene and the others had been more resigned than anything; there had been days on Okinawa, when the rain was at it’s worst and men were dying for inches of irrelevant rock, that he’d wanted to fold in completely. Now, he lived with a dire notion that maybe none of them were destined to survive. And what constituted surviving anyway? Breathing? Relatively healthy? Who even knew anymore. 

Gene sighed, refolded the letter and tucked it away in the pocket of his open jacket. All he could do about it now was pray Sid got put in a good unit with good leaders and good men. And got lucky. That was pretty much all anyone could do. 

When he looked back up, Snafu was still staring, brows arched sharply downward in contemplation. Gene both hated that look and found it fondly exasperating; normally it was followed by something so ridiculous that Burgie threatened to disown all of them. Before Gene could open his mouth to head off one of Snafu’s brilliant ideas, Bill straightened up from his curled crouch, attention caught by something down near the water. 

“What is it?” Jay asked, sitting up and trying to crane his head around Bill’s body to see. He’d been lying with his back to all of them before Snafu had asked Gene anything and must’ve rolled over at some point without him noticing. 

“Who the hell are they?” 

Gene glanced over to where Bill was pointing. Men in clean uniforms were filing off the docked transport ship in neat rows. As they watched, a couple of the men stumbled in the thick sand, falling to their knees, and had to be pulled upright by their buddies. 

"Who the hell cares? New batch of cannon fodder," Snafu answered, eyes no longer boring into Gene and not bothering to look up from where he was now using his K-Bar to pick at his fingernails like some over the top Marine cliché. 

Gene squinted. "I think it's the Army," he said.

Burgie opened his eyes. “Wait, really?” 

Bill scowled, looking over at Gene briefly before going back to watching the beach. “What the fuck do we need the Army for?” 

“They’re here to save us,” Snafu said, lowering the knife and searching for his cigarettes, “don’t you listen to the radio?” 

“Fuck you,” Bill responded without heat and without turning around to address the other Marine, “Did you know about this?” He asked Burgie accusingly. 

Burgie nodded and pulled himself to his feet to watch the disembarking. “Yeah, they’re early though; Lieutenant said they’d be here next week.” 

“Well, shit,” Bill said. 

_Well shit indeed_ , Gene thought, watching the group of soldiers on the shore swell in numbers as the seconds passed. Idly, he wondered what they were seeing – what they thought about what they were seeing – how they felt about being there. When they’d heard that the Germans had surrendered there’d been a mix of elation and bitter frustration, thinking about the masses that would get to go home. Now he just felt sorry for them – maybe even a little guilty – they’d won one war with the reward being the opportunity to fight in another. 

He thought about Sid’s parents, probably used to the idea that he was home and safe, only to be stunned into learning the Marine Corps wasn’t quite ready to let him go and was suddenly glad he hadn’t gotten to visit his own on leave after Okinawa despite the rumors. He looked over at Snafu, deadly still and silent as a grave, smoke curling up and away into the muggy air. The other man shook his head slowly, a wealth of misgivings in the motion. 

“You gonna pull that same bullshit with them that you did with us? With the oil drums?” Gene asked finally just to have something to break the atmosphere. 

A sly smile curved itself onto Snaf’s face. “You gonna be jealous if I do?” 

“Some of those are combat veterans,” Burgie cut in, he narrowed his eyes until only a sliver of blue was visible, “if one of them shoots you, I ain’t gonna feel sorry for you.” 

“I’ll laugh,” Bill added. 

“You’ll cry, saying ‘if only I’d appreciated him more, whatever am I gonna do now’,” Snafu rebutted, voice doing a poor imitation of Bill’s New York accent. 

Bill rolled his eyes. “Ass.” 

Burgie pointed at him, but his expression was tinged in amusement. “I mean it.” 

“Yes, sir,” Snafu said, none of the mischief drained from his eyes at all. 

Gene shook his head, but didn’t try to suppress the smile that formed. He had a feeling they’d be something of a premium sometime soon. 

\- - - - - - 

**August 10, 1945  
Pavuvu**

“I feel cheated,” Skip said, surveying the accompanying shoreline for a moment, “not one naked native girl in sight.” 

“They probably took one look at you and got the hell out of dodge,” Penk piped up behind him. 

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” Malark chimed in and then promptly ducked when Skip rounded on both of them and tried to smack at their heads. 

Carwood side-stepped the trio, sharing an amused look with Buck who immediately threw his own two cents into the pile, and stepped out into the soft sand surrounding the island. The sun was even more brutal here then it had been in Honolulu and he could feel the sweat trickle down his back, sticking his new uniform to the skin. Still, he’d take it over Bastogne. 

He’d take almost anything over Bastogne. 

“Goddamn,” George muttered next to him, pulling his boots out of the shifting surface with a grimace, “how do you fight in this?” 

“I don’t think the whole island is made of sand, George,” Carwood answered. "And we aren't fighting here anyway." 

“Thank god,” he said, throwing a grin at Carwood, “I wouldn't want to look stupid in front of all the boys watching,” he gestured inland where a group of Marines were stationed, observing the Airborne’s arrival with judging eyes. 

As George finished the thought, Frank - who had disembarked right behind them - took a step and went down to one knee when his boot caught in the sand. 

“Like so,” George said, immediately leaning down to help Frank up again. 

“This is bullshit,” Frank grumbled, brushing off his pants irritably. “How are we supposed to fight in this?” 

George nodded along, face serious as he could make it. “You know I was wondering the same thing,” he intoned. 

Carwood smiled, patting George on the back as he passed him by to catch up to where Winter’s was gathering Easy’s officers up near a small bluff where the sand met the greater dirt of the island’s main thoroughfare. Ron slid to his right two steps the moment Carwood’s arrived without even looking, the same strange accommodating awareness that he’d gotten used to by the time the fighting had stopped. 

“The General,” Winter’s began after he did a rough head count, “said that our barracks are set up in the Eastern part of the base, so take your men and claim whatever open tents are there. Try to keep the unit together; make the runner’s less confused when they need to send messages. If you need anything, I’ll be in one of the Command tents apparently,” he gave a wry smile at that, “training will be resuming in a couple days so, tell the men to get some rest in the meantime,” he looked around at each of them, “any questions?” 

A chorus of shaking heads and ‘no, sirs’ answered him. Before they could break away to fulfill his orders though, Nixon put up a hand. 

“Oh, and also, try not to step on any of the Marine’s toes, okay?” He waved a hand dismissively, tone more amused than anything. “Their commanders are already sore about us being here; no need to make it any worse.” 

“Dismissed,” Winters concluded, nodding at them, before walking – presumably – in the direction of the new battalion headquarters, Nixon faithfully following by his side. 

“Sore?” Shames said, bewildered, “You’d think they’d be grateful.” 

“Look at this place,” Harry said, swinging an arm to encompass the whole of the tattered tent dwellings they could see and the closed off expressions of the men closest to them, “I don’t think grateful’s a feeling they couldn't afford to have very often.” 

Carwood thought about those horrifying newsreels they’d been shown about the Battle of Okinawa and privately agreed with Harry. The Armored Division's had thought the same thing about them in the Ardennes; Carwood had no illusions that a lot of the battered Marines stationed here probably saw them in much the same way 101st saw Patton.

Ron looked over at him; silent understanding peeking out at Carwood in his dark eyes. “Let’s go,” he said. 

“Here we go,” Buck uttered lowly and left to begin rounding up ‘his idiots’ as he called them on the ride over. Harry gave him a sardonic, gap-toothed grin and went off to do the same. 

Carwood followed Ron. 

_Here we go._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I start this and not realize how much time passed between Peleliu and the end of Okinawa? Yes, I did. So, as for Team Leckie and their various injuries, assume that there was a period of recovery, set backs, physiotherapy (for Hoosier and Runner anyway) and rest before being shipped back to the front. 
> 
> Also, do you realize how long it would take the Band of Brothers guys to get from Austria to Pavuvu? Fucking forever is the answer, so forgive me on any obvious timeline issues. I tried


	3. II. August 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Bastille Day to anyone out there from France/with French roots! 
> 
> To everyone who left kudos or a comment, you're amazing, thank you! All mistakes are still mine.

**August 12, 1945  
Pavuvu**

“Of all the things that I’ve missed about the war,” Chuckler said, sitting down kitty-corner from Leckie, food tray in hand, “the never-ending rice was not one of them.” 

Leckie agreed. Hospital food wasn’t good, but at least it had variety. And some taste. They hadn’t even been back a month and he was ready to bludgeon someone for the opportunity to eat an actual, fresh vegetable. A chunk of beef. Real milk. Anything. 

“There are things you missed about the war?” Hoosier asked, sliding in next to Chuckler, feet bumping against Leckie’s under the table and then staying there. Leckie blinked, surprised by the casual invasion, but Hoosier only offered him a raised brow in return and stubbornly kept his feet tangled with Bob’s. He narrowed his eyes at Hoosier’s dare and planted his own feet more firmly. Hoosier’s face sharpened in amusement. 

“—clothes sticking to me all the time, not having any privacy; and not seeing your lovely faces of course,” Chuckler was listing off, answering Hoosier’s question.

“I’m flattered,” he said despite not hearing the beginning of Chuckler’s reply. 

“You should be.” 

“It’s the 101st Airborne,” Runner joined in, dropping down next to Leckie unceremoniously and not making a lick of sense. 

Chuckler looked over at Runner, understandably bemused. “What?”

“You wanted to know who the Army guys were – the ones set up over by the new joint headquarters? They’re the 101st Airborne apparently.” 

“Really?” Leckie turned around, peering out of the mess tent as if he could see all the way to other side of the camp from there. 

“The Airborne?” Chuckler waved around a fork full of rice, “What the hell’s the Airborne supposed to do?” 

“Drop into Tokyo and save us the trouble, hopefully,” Hoosier said. 

“When I was in the hospital the paper called them the ‘Battered Bastards of Bastogne’; they spent months freezing their balls off in some Belgian forest keeping the Germans occupied,” Leckie mentioned, still glancing around as if one of them would accidentally wander close even to be identified, when it didn’t happen, he turned back around, “you know, the Battle of the Bulge,” he elaborated. 

“And they still got sent over here?” Hoosier snorted, “Who’d they piss off?”

“Patton?” Leckie suggested, smile tugging at his mouth, “I heard they basically told him to ‘get fucked’ when he went on the little victory lap after the battle.” 

“That’s real smart. Didn’t he hit one of his own guys once?” Chuckler pointed out. 

“I would love to be cold,” Runner lamented, taking a bite of the canned pineapple the mess had taken to serving lately, “almost miss having malaria so I could remember how to shiver.” 

Chuckler glared. “Do not even fuck around with that,” he said. 

“Calm down, Conan,” Runner rolled his eyes, “it’s a joke.” 

Chuckler pointed his fork at Runner menacingly. “It’s not funny.” 

Hoosier’s ankle pressed against his. Once he had Leckie’s attention, he nodded behind him at the entrance, “I think those are your deep freeze bastard heroes now.” 

As stealthily as he could, Leckie twisted around to see who Hoosier was talking about. At the front of the chow line was several men in new issue uniforms, Eagle patch standing out at the shoulder. The two men leading the others were both Sergeants, though with a distinctly Mutt and Jeff look about them. The short one at the font of the line looked like he was one wrong word away from stabbing the nearest guy and the other was a curly haired giant with an honest to god cigar in his mouth. 

“Where the fuck did he get the cigar?” Runner asked, voice doing nothing to hide his awe. 

“Maybe supply likes him,” Chuckler said.

“Jesus, they’ve been here two days and they’re already the favorites,” Runner complained. 

All four of them watched as they got their food and sat at one of the empty tables on the other side of the tent, like a group of teenagers checking out the new kids at school. If Leckie wasn’t so curious, he’d be a little disgusted with himself for being such a cliché. 

“I could take him,” Chuckler declared eventually. 

Runner immediately started laughing, while Hoosier gave him an incredulous look. 

“Are you serious? He’s got to have at least thirty pounds on you.”

“But I’m flexible,” Chuckler argued, wiggling an eyebrow at him. Runner laughed even harder. 

Hoosier scrunched up his face. “Did I need that information? No, I did not.” 

Leckie tuned out the conversation in favor of watching the Airborne guys talk. That was interrupted a couple minutes later when Hoosier kicked at his shin. He let out a hiss and turned to face the man with a scowl. 

“What the hell was that for?” 

“Stop gawkin’ and eat your damn food,” he said, using his fork to slide the tray closer to Leckie, “no point in letting it go to waste.” 

Leckie stared down at the now clumped rice and exactly three hunks of overcooked chicken on the tray. “It’s already waste,” he muttered, but picked his own fork back up anyway. 

“I know, right?” Chuckler agreed, pulling them around full circle, “I did not miss the fucking rice.” 

\- - - - - -

Joe thought of himself as a someone who could handle almost anything. Maybe not quietly, maybe not without knocking some head’s together, but he could deal. He dealt with not one, but two grenades nearly taking him out on D-Day and he dealt with the trench foot bullshit in the Ardennes and he dealt with almost having his leg blown the fuck off. He could deal with the idea that one war apparently wasn’t enough and being cooped up on a ship and trains for weeks before ending up in the hottest goddamned place he’d ever been. And he dealt with it all with, if not grace, then at least a degree of stoicism. 

What he could not deal with was being stared at. 

“The guy still there?” George asked, sidling up and sitting down on the upended crate next to him. 

“Yeah.” 

“Still just…staring.” 

“Yes, goddamnit.” 

“You could always, I don’t know, talk to him or something.” 

Joe turned and gave George what he hoped was the appropriate look that suggestion deserved. “Why the hell would I do that? Motherfucker wants to talk to me; he can pick his skinny ass up and come over here.” 

George rolled his eyes and huffed dramatically. “Well, it you aren’t going to _do_ anything about it, then you can’t actually complain about it. Maybe he thinks you’re staring at him.” 

“No. No, he started it and he knows he started it.” 

“Okay…”

“He’s fucking with me,” Joe said, finally voicing the conclusion he’d come to a couple hours earlier. 

“Fucking with you?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

George looked unconvinced. “How do you figure?” 

“I just know,” Joe explained. 

“Oh, for Christ sakes,” George mumbled, “Joe, he doesn’t even _know_ you.” 

“There’s something not right about him,” Joe said, hunkering down and narrowing his eyes at the smirk that twitched over the Marine’s face. He was shirtless and barefoot – much like the day before when he’d wandered off and set up camp across from Easy’s quarters – not even bothering to sweat, which was unfuckingfair, and chain-smoking as if it was going out of style. The whole while his eerie light blue eyes watching the Airborne’s movement like a hawk watching a bunch of scurrying mice. 

Easy Company were not fucking mice. 

Not letting that stand, Joe had taken up resistance across from him and echoed his stare down. Unfortunately, instead of being intimidated, the curly, dark haired man had only turned his full attention on Joe with a creepy intensity. Bill had been by earlier to try and entice him away and when it didn’t work, he stalked off, muttering about someone called “crazy joe” under his breath and Joe was (almost) certain he wasn’t talking about him. Apparently, Bill had called in the big guns because not twenty minutes later, here came George Luz in all his irreverent glory. 

Joe was gonna kick Bill’s ass. Just as soon as the Marine fucked off. 

“I hate to point this out,” George said, tone light, “but have you considered that you’re making it worse by sitting here and staring back?”

Joe sighed. “Was there something you wanted, Luz?”

George shrugged. “Not really. Thought I’d keep you company, you know, try to talk some sense into you or hold your stuff if you snap and challenge him to a duel or something, whichever comes first, or,” here he pulled out a bowl of something that Joe hadn’t noticed before, “bring you some food. You missed lunch.” 

The bowl had some rice and meat – chicken or fish he assumed by the color – in it. George handed over the meal and then brandished a strange bottle at him with a flourish. Cautiously, he picked up the bottle and tried to read the label, but was thwarted by it being written entirely in Japanese. 

“What’s this?” He asked, suspicious. 

“Sake,” George said, heavy pronunciation on the back half of the word, “some kind of Japanese liquor.”

“Is it any good?”

“Eh,” George shrugged, “You’ve had worse.” 

Joe took a careful drink. Not terrible; not as good as some of the hooch they stole from Goering’s place, but definitely better than some of the swill stocked at the dive bars back home. “Thanks,” he said and dug into the food. 

While Joe did that, the Marine across from them was joined by someone else who drew the other’s attention like his focus was on a string. The equally as scrawny guy was pale with red hair that lit up in the sun. They couldn’t make out what the guy was saying to his friend, but by the emphatic gestures, it was some kind of scolding that the staring guy seemed to only take half-seriously. He pointed over at Joe and said something back, which had the redhaired Marine glancing over at them. 

George beamed at him and waved. “Hey!” 

The Marine waved back. “Sorry about him,” he called over, voice painted with a noticeable Southern accent, “he ain’t used to people yet.” 

The staring Marine sputtered indignantly, turning on his friend in betrayal. George grinned harder, if that were possible. “No problem, man,” he yelled back. 

The redhaired Marine tugged on the other until he reluctantly stood up and began pulling him away. The staring Marine only glanced back once to send a toothy grin Joe’s way before they disappeared into the warren of tents around them. Joe relaxed, finally, and ate a little more of his rice. Mostly he sat there and tried to soak up George’s presence without being too obvious about it. 

Eventually, George made a humming noise and then turned to Joe. “Hey, did that guy look like Babe to you, or was I seeing things?” 

\- - - - - -

To be honest, Andy hadn’t been sure what to expect from this command meeting. 

There’d been endless questions; from his own men, from other officer’s men, from other officers (Andy also wasn’t sure when he became the be all and end all of knowledge about what was going on, but apparently he was) about what the plan moving forward was, about which Army units had joined them on the island, about who was in charge and who was going to have to play nice with the Army now that they were here (the answer to the last one was the only he could answer definitively: everyone). More than once, some young Lieutenant or Captain would sidle up to him and ask the least casual questions in faux casual tones and Andy had had to stifle a smile when he caught Eddie’s unimpressed expression out of the corner of his eye. 

And now – finally – at least some of those other questions might be answered. 

It was a bit strange to look around and see faces he had no context for. He’d gotten used to the same men; skin dry and peeling or cracked, clothes sweat stained and half eaten by the salt, sand and rain. He wasn’t fond of all of those faces, but they were faces he knew and could anticipate. Who needed complete obedience, who’s orders could be worked around, who was actually good at this kind of planning (sadly, the latter was the smallest category), who was a leader and who was here for glory and awards and not much else. 

( _Thankfully, the glory hounds didn’t tend to last very long. Laudation was not a commodity in high circulation in the Pacific, and searching for it like some kind of buried treasure only got men killed. Enough men were killed when someone knew what the hell they were doing, in its absence, disasters were guaranteed._ )

So, the old faces were still there, gathered around the cavalcade of maps in the new, spacious Joint Command Tent, but the gaps were filled in with new faces. Mostly Army, though they were accompanied by one or two Naval officers with frustrated expressions. 

“Is this everyone?” Colonel Densmore, one of the Corps’ own, though not Andy’s favorite, asked once the tent was fairly well packed in with bodies. He got nods of ascent from the other higher ups and continued, “Right, well, for those who don’t know, I’m Colonel Densmore, this is Colonel Sink of the 101st Airborne, and Colonel Ryder of 96th Infantry, respectively,” he pointed to each man in turn, an older mustached man on one side and a thin man with a scar bisecting his left cheek, “now, let’s get to business.” 

Densmore, Sink and Ryder outlined the new training regime in brisk, efficient terms. Drills, combat simulations, all the normal operating procedures; with the added task of trying to blend units to see who could work together most effectively. 

“It is of the _upmost_ importance,” Densmore said after forty minutes of talking, “that you do everything you can to ensure that the men learn to work with each other. This is going to the largest sea invasion in the history of the world,” his speech lowered an octave trying to impress the severity of the words into their minds, “we can’t afford to have a cog out of step if we want to be successful.”

 _If we want anyone to survive_ , Andy heard in the undertones of the man’s voice. No one mentioned the casualty estimates that were floating around camp and back home. If they were even half right about them, it was going to a damned massacre for both sides. Not for the first time, Andy wondered why surrendering was somehow worse than this, how could it be worse than the systemic slaughter of an entire generation of two nation’s men. How, how, **how**. 

“Haldane,” Densmore said, breaking into the circle of dark thoughts that spiraled around Andy’s mind, and forcing him back to the present where he noticed that most of the tent had cleared out; assignments in their hands, “come here.” 

Andy stood up from his seat and approached the main table where a crude topographical scale model of Japan was placed. Ryder was gone, but Sink stood there with another man, silently appraising him. Andy let him look without resentment; if there was one thing he was sure of it was that as long as the men needed him to be a pillar, a pillar he could be, no matter the task ahead. 

“Captain Haldane is one of our best,” Densmore said, presenting him to Sink. 

“Captain,” the older man nodded.

“Sir,” Andy said, saluting. 

“I want you to meet your new battalion commander,” Densmore continued, gesturing to the tall, redhaired man standing at Sink’s side, “this is Major Winters.” 

Andy turned the salute on the Major. “Sir.” 

Winter’s nodded solemnly, returning the salute. “Captain.” 

“Congratulations Haldane,” Densmore said, a wry smile tipping up one corner of his mouth, “as of now you’ve been promoted to battalion; which puts you in charge of several more company’s. A responsibility I know you can handle,” Densmore rose an eyebrow at him in question, but his tone said that it wasn’t one at all, “I’ll get you an extended roster list tomorrow.” 

“It’s an honor, sir,” Andy said by rote, more thrown than he wanted to admit. 

“I’ve studied your record, Captain,” Sink added, “it’s impressive. Guadalcanal, Peleliu, Okinawa. Silver Star on Okinawa. Very impressive.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Because of that record, I think you and Major Winters here could be a force to be reckoned with. We’re hoping to create a few specialized, elite units and I genuinely believe that the two of you could lead the first of those.” 

Andy darted his eyes over to look at Winters whose blue eyes blinked and slid over to him in turn, equally as surprised by the admission as he was. It was Winters who eventually answered his commanding officer.

“We’ll certainly do our best, Colonel.” 

“I know you will,” Sink said with a nod and paternal pat on the shoulder, “We’ll leave you two to get acquainted; drills start at 0600 tomorrow.”

“Sir,” both he and Winters said almost in unison. Sink gave him a quick smile and Densmore a nod with a lingering look at Andy before following his fellow full bird out of the tent and leaving him and Winters alone. 

For a moment, the only sound in the space was the outside shouts of men filtering in through the small gaps in the sides of the tent. Andy cleared his throat. 

“Major, if you –”

“Dick.”

Andy stopped, surprised again. He met the other’s eyes. “Excuse me?” 

“Call me Dick,” Winters’ said, a self-deprecating smile crossed his face – there and gone – and he shrugged, “I’m not used to a lot of formality. Especially if we’re going to be working so closely together.” 

“Alright,” Andy returned the smile, “I’m Andy.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, Andy,” Winters stuck one pale hand out.

Andy took it. “You too.” 

“So,” Dick said glancing over at the tacked up maps the Colonels had left on the large corkboard at the head of the tent, “what do I need to know about the Japanese?” 

A thread of tension that Andy wasn’t even aware he’d been holding, loosened from around his chest. The one thing he’d been worried about with the incoming Army personal was a kind of blind assertion that the enemy in the Pacific was no different than in Europe. The kind of error that would be a grievous mistake. Andy had no idea how much he’d been dreading that way of thinking until now; presented with a man who actually wanted his honest opinion instead of assuming he already knew the best way to do things. 

He smiled tiredly, but more optimistically than he had since the planned invasion was announced. “How much time do you have?” 

Dick waved an arm forward. “I’m all ears.”

\- - - - - -

It took David more self-discipline than he thought not to use up a whole roll of camera just on the ocean itself. 

Some days he felt like an abandoned sailor striving to get back to sea; a siren’s call tethering him to the edge of the shore and with the ocean so close all the time, it was difficult not to indulge. Still, when he’d bought the camera in Honolulu, it hadn’t actually been with the purpose of capturing the expanse of scenery, (not to say that some of the initial role didn’t end up in pictures of large blooms of tropical flowers in a riot of colors and a snapshot or two of the Hawaiian sunset), but to catalog the journey itself; the men around him. 

He’d had a history professor that mourned the fact that photography hadn’t been around during the Napoleonic Wars, the French and American Revolutions. The Age of Exploration. All the centuries of human history locked away in paintings with only a few written documentations to say what really happened. When one student had pointed out that paintings did represent what actually happened, the professor had looked at him with a sadness that had made David’s lungs stutter. 

_“Paintings are beautiful,”_ he’d said, _“they show us symbolism, allegory, notions and ideas and they do so in brilliant colors and textures and shapes. Skeletons stalk the victims of the Black Death, Angels guiding battlefields, determined faces sewn into canvas for all eternity. But it isn’t real. Paintings mute the horror of war; they distance it from us – make us admire it. The men and women in paintings cease to be flesh and blood. Photographs show us how it was, no filters, no pretty façade. Take the _Migrant Mother_. In a painting there would probably have been a proud tilt to her head – the suffering nobility, something to applaud. But a photo? The worry, the strain, the lines on her face, the ducked heads of her children – it makes her real. Her plight is not noble, it is sad. It’s supposed to be sad. A fellow human being is suffering, right here, right now. Right under our noses. Paintings write myths. But photographs tell the truth.”_

It was an idea that had stuck with David, even years later. 

So, he wrote all through Europe. It was what he was good at after all, words scratched onto paper. But during the layover in Hawaii, he’d gone for a walk one morning along a line of shops near the base and stopped outside one where a new camera was set in the display window. Not exactly unsurprising – most places with high tourism had camera and film shops nestled amongst the other wares – but this was brand new, state of the art and even had color film that could be used with it. On a whim, David went inside, bought the camera and several rolls of film (including one color one). 

Later that day, he’d gone down to the beach with the express idea of testing the camera out. It had worked like a dream and after taking a picture of several of the guys dogpiling Grant during an impromptu soccer game complete with beachball stand in, he realized that this was why he’d bought it. To document the truth of these men. They deserved to be remembered as bone and blood, real; not only a collection of stories in his journal, but names with faces and pasts and – God willing – futures. 

And if some of those truths would be a little hard to swallow in polite society, well, it wasn’t as if the whole world needed to see every truth. So, he wrote about the long ride out to Pavuvu and the heat and their base and he accompanied it with pictures. Penkala crawling out of a collapsed tent with a thoroughly disgruntled look on his face. Shifty marveling at a perched albatross. Babe climbing a coconut tree while being cheered on by several of the guys. Doc chewing a guilty Babe out for climbing said coconut tree. 

“You gonna sit out here all night, staring at nothing or what?” 

David startled, blinking his eyes and realizing for the first time that the sun was halfway to set and he must’ve been sitting on beach’s ledge for hours. He looked down at his trailed off thoughts and then glanced up at Joe. 

The last of the sun’s glow threw his angular face into shadow, messy hair resettling into his eyes whenever the sea wind knocked it loose. He looked annoyed – he always looked annoyed – but there was a stillness to him that was rare. The cigarette in his hand provided enough spark to make out the shape of it. Suddenly, David wished he had his camera there for a more shameful personal reason. 

“Hey, Earth to Web? You in there, Sharkbait?” 

The new nickname broke the strange atmosphere around them and David pushed his hair out of his own face and frowned. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he muttered, closing his journal and tucking the pen away before standing. 

Joe finished his cigarette and then followed David back to Easy’s line of barracks. “Might want to take it easy on the whole staring blankly out to sea,” Joe said as they came up to the tents, voice lowered out of deference to the hour. 

David crossed his arms stubbornly at the chiding. “I’m on the shoreline for god sakes, I can’t fall into the water or get attacked by something from there.” 

“That’s not –” Joe brought a hand up and rubbed at his face, frustrated, “I know that, idiot,” he continued, tone harder, “I meant, all that salt breeze probably isn’t good for your eyes. Or your skin.”

David blinked; his arms relaxed a bit. “Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” Joe scoffed. 

“Why do you even care?” David asked, suddenly exhausted. 

Joe fidgeted and when he answered, he refused to look directly at David. “Just be a shame is all; fucking all that up.” 

“Fucking what up?” 

Joe gestured to David’s face. “That. I mean,” he cleared his throat and turned away, one hand already on the door to his tent, “how else are you going to get some poor woman to marry you if you screw up the one thing you got going for you?” 

David’s arms fell to his sides and he felt his jaw drop. Before he could gather his wits to respond, Joe disappeared into the dark tent. He stood there, staring, for a lot longer than he cared to think about. 

“Webster, you okay?” 

David turned to see Lip watching him, an air of confusion around him. “I’m fine.” 

“Alright,” Lip eyed him critically for a moment, “better get to sleep then, drills start tomorrow morning.” 

“Right, I will. Thanks.” 

David turned and went over to his own tent, the echoing pulse of a truth he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge pounding against his ribs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mutt and Jeff_ is an old comic that I have literally never read, but it was a thing that my family frequently used to describe two people who were either disparate in height or seeming compatibility. 
> 
> I gave Andy a medal, because he probably deserved one.
> 
> The Migrant Mother is a famous picture taken during The Great depression. If you're American, you've almost certainly seen it before. Maybe even if you aren't; I don't know how famous it may or may not be internationally. 
> 
> Show of hands: who's surprised Web talked so much? I mean, I was, but I expect everyone else is giving me sad, pitying looks right now.


	4. III. August 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's long, folks. I don't know why, but it is. 
> 
> I want to say that I am screwing with the platoons a bit because there are too many characters and I need them to be conveniently in smaller units so I can manage the mayhem better. Henceforth, Easy has two platoons and the 3rd platoon guys are now in 1st platoon. And I've promoted Harry. So, ha. The structure will become evident as we move on. 
> 
> Mistakes continue to be mine. Kudos and comments and support continue to be lovely. 🥰

**August 22, 1945  
Pavuvu**

Burgie was not having a good week. 

Not that the rest of the war had been fun, but this week – in particular – was taking the cake. 

So far, K Company had been put with no less than three separate Army companies – two Infantry units and one Airborne – because, despite what their Lieutenant assured them, no one in command apparently had any fucking idea what they were doing. One of those disastrous pairings had resulted in Snafu – of all the damn people – having to sit on Bill to keep him from tearing one of the Infantry Sergeants a new one when he made an joke in exceptionally bad taste somehow equating island hopping and venereal disease. 

( _Burgie didn’t hear said joke himself; what he did hear was the silence of a brewing storm and the loud thump of Snafu’s lightning fast reflexes tackling Bill into the dirt and shoving his face down so that his curses were completely muffled while the oblivious Sergeant wandered away. When Burgie asked Gene later what exactly the soldier had said, Sledge’s mouth had turned downward, delicate features radiating displeasure so hard that Burgie figured he was better off not knowing for his blood pressure’s sake._ )

That had been Day 2 of the blended unit training. 

It hadn’t gotten much better after that. 

As far as Burgie could tell, the frustration was wide spread and ongoing. One of the Charlie Company guys had actually been demoted for taking a swing at a Lieutenant and two days earlier, a curly haired Marine from H Company had swanned into the hooch tent, slammed a hand down on the makeshift bar and demanded that he be given a bottle of the resident moonshiners strongest stuff so that “ _my buddies and I can drink ourselves out of this Svengali induced fever dream and die in a matter to which we want to be accustomed_ ”. Burgie, who had gone there to get Snafu back to their bunk had actually been impressed. Snafu, the overly dramatic bastard, looked like he wanted to stand up and applaud. 

It was not going smoothly, was the point. 

“If I have to listen to some dickfaced Army officer correct my uniform, or my pace or my fucking _attitude_ –” 

“Calm down, Bill,” Sledge said without looking up from where he was scribbling away in his bible. 

“ – one more time, I’m going to lose it,” Bill huffed, flailing his arms outward. 

“Didn’t know ya had anythin’ to lose,” Snafu countered, watching their squad mate pace like it was the height of entertainment. 

Bill pointed at him. “I swear to –” 

“We’re all frustrated,” Jay cut him off, sending an admonishing look Snafu’s way as he said it, “the whole Company. There’s no need to take it out on us, okay?” 

Bill dropped his arm and then scrubbed a hand down his face roughly. “Yeah, sure, fuck. Sorry.” 

Jay dragged the other man down to the ground to sit, which Bill did with relative – for him anyway – ease. Gene watched until Bill was settled and then turned to Burgie. “Have you heard anything?” 

“We’re supposed to be doin’ night drills,” Burgie said; it sounded exhausting, the lack of overall communication combined with not being able to see was going to make the experience a doozy, he could tell already, “but I don’t know who with.” 

Snafu snorted from his perch on a rock next to their shaded area. “They tryin’ for a friendly fire incident?” 

Gene smacked a hand against Snafu’s shin where his leg was dangling by his shoulder. “Don’t even joke about that. Last thing we need is you tempting fate.” 

Snafu reached over and tugged gently on a strand of Gene’s hair; it was getting too long. To be fair, most everyone’s hair was getting shaggy. “You superstitious now, darlin’?” 

Gene looked over at Snafu with a scowl. Snafu beamed down at him in response. Bill rolled his eyes, but some of the tension relaxed out of shoulders. Jay only smiled softly; one corner of his mouth lifting upwards at the endearment. 

Burgie sighed internally and made a mental note to remind Snafu to tone it down around the Army guys. The last thing they needed was some upstart soldier getting offended and going off about the Marine queers in K Company. Then Bill really would murder someone and the rest of them would have to hide a body while Burgie lied off his ass to whatever superior the guy mouthed off too first. 

“Burgin!” 

Burgie stood up automatically at the voice; turning around to face the Lieutenant. “Sir?”

Jones stood behind them, hands on his hips. Once he had their attention, he motioned for all of them to stand. “C’mon, the Skipper wants to see you.” 

“All of us, sir?” Gene asked, pulling himself to his feet. 

Jones nodded. “All ‘a you.” 

Their motley gang followed behind the Lieutenant’s lanky frame as he weaved his way around other groups of lazy looking Marine’s and through the village of tents that swallowed up the inland beachheads. Eventually, they arrived at the edge of the demarcation between the Marine and Army bunks where Captain Haldane and two other men in Army fatigues were waiting for them; several other members of the company were already shuffling uneasily on their feet. 

Haldane nodded away their salutes and then turned to the tall redheaded Major standing next to him. “That’s the last of them.” 

“At ease,” the Major said, voice softer than Burgie was expecting by the sharp planes of his face, but firm, “I’m Major Winters,” he continued, “Captain Haldane and I have been put in charge of assembling a joint combat unit whose main purpose will be to carry out precision missions; some of which might be behind enemy lines. I’m told that you’re some of the best Marines the Captain’s worked with during the war.” 

Burgie couldn’t help but stand up a little straighter at the praise, and wasn’t surprised to see the whole group basically do the same thing. Never let it be said that they wouldn’t ask ‘how high’ when Andrew Haldane said to ‘jump’. Winters smiled, small and genuine looking, at the reactions that garnered. It didn’t last long, and Burgie had a feeling that the serious expression that rearranged itself on his face was a lot more natural in these kind of circumstances for him. 

“All that said,” Winters took the time to actually look every man standing there – all dozen or so – in the eye; Burgie met the blue eyes and felt some of that gravity pass from the Major to him as if he could make feelings a tangible thing to hand out, his shoulder squared even more without thought, “I want you to understand none of you are obligated to be a part of this unit. There’s no punishment if you decline; you’ll continue on in your normal fashion, with your normal company. I won’t lie to you, if you do try, there’s no guarantee of making it and it’s going to be hard work. And dangerous.” 

Winters looked at them again, gauging their responses. When no one said anything, he glanced at the Skipper who returned the stare, communicating something in that silent language that all officers seemed to learn at OCS, then over to the dark-haired Captain on his other side who only shrugged and before turning back them. He nodded once, decisively. “Alright then,” he said almost more to himself than anyone else, “get your gear and meet us over at the Training Camp.” 

Winters dismissed them and the Skipper waved over to the supply tent. “Let’s go, Marines,” he said, to a chorus of ‘ooh-rahs’ that Burgie saw the unidentified Captain smile at as he passed by. 

Captain Haldane handed out blank cartridges that they all used in training and then gave them a handwritten map of a section of the island; little red and blue x’s marking two places roughly a klick apart. “You’re going to start here,” he said, pointing to one of the x’s, “work together to get to the objective,” he pointed to the other x, “a couple of scouts will be watching your progress. They’ll be wearing bright yellow armbands; everyone else is an enemy defender. Try to do it as quickly – and as quietly as possible. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the men answered. 

“Uh, sir?” Burgie asked, looking at the map and trying to memorize the terrain as best he could, “what’s the objective exactly?” 

The Captain broke out into a wicked grin. “A flag.” 

Burgie stared. “We’re playing Capture-the-Flag, sir? For training?” 

He slapped Burgie on the back once. “Good luck, gentlemen.” 

Burgie looked over at a wide-eyed Gene. Bill threw an arm around the Alabama man’s shoulders, a look of pure glee lighting up his face. Snafu’s entire demeanor had changed from lazy and distant to a leopard on the prowl. He gave Burgie a sharp-toothed smile. Jay mostly looked resigned. 

“We have got this,” Bill crowed, letting out a whoop. 

Burgie glanced back down at the map. The little red x stood out starkly against the white and black of the rudimentary map. Bill and Snafu’s voices already arguing strategy in the background. 

He wondered who was waiting for them on the other side. 

\- - - - - -

**Two Hours Later**

“Who _are_ these guys?” Frank hissed at him after the second of their five parameter markers was symbolically blown to hell and back.

George saw a flash of movement out in the dense trees and fired a couple rounds in that direction before answering. “Well, Frank,” he ducked behind their cover, reloaded the blanks in the rifle and took a breath, “I’m going to assume it’s the Marines.” 

“Okay, smartass, I meant –” 

Another body all but fell on top of them in a controlled roll and George glanced over to see Tab’s eyes focused out over the ground in front of them in frantic sweeps. “Come on,” he whispered, “we’re falling back. They got Cobb, Popeye and Johnny. Lip wants to regroup by the knoll over by the east parameter.” 

“There’s someone out there,” George nodded in the direction of where they’d last seen movement. 

“Bull and Christenson are going to give you covering fire,” he boosted himself up on his toes, ready to turn and retreat, “on my mark?” 

“Shit, fine,” Frank muttered, adjusting his helmet and getting ready to follow Tab. 

Tab signaled to Bull and a second later a barrage of covering fire erupted leaving the three of them to scramble out from their makeshift shelter and around the shelf of land they’d used as a high ground; winding down until they reached their squad mates on the outskirts of the inner sanctum of their stronghold. The three stopped for a moment to catch their breath and the returning fire petered out as their side stopped. 

“You guys –” Bull didn’t get to finish his question before another of their parameter markers was destroyed. 

“There goes the neighborhood,” George said as Tab cursed. 

“Let’s go,” Bull said and the group of five continued the retreat, swinging around until they caught up to the small hill where Lip was relaying orders to Shifty who scampered off immediately, disappearing into the tree line near the north of their position. Skinny stood next to Lip; by his feet were three unknown Marines sitting, disgruntled expressions on their faces. 

“Nice,” George said, when they approached, nodding at the prisoners, “yours?”

Skinny shrugged. “All Lip’s plan; misdirected them until they basically walked right into our arms.” 

“You guys?” Lip asked, turning to Bull. 

“Two of the markers are done at the south.” 

“Three,” Frank corrected. 

Lip frowned. “Three?”

“Whole damned flank is wide open,” George collaborated, “and there’s movement down there. At least two guys that I saw.”

“I’m sure they know we left,” Christenson put in, locking in his new cartridges. 

“Damn,” Lip looked around, face practically broadcasting his thinking process as he took everything in, “there’s at least four more northwest of here. Alright, Skinny, you and Christenson cover what’s left of our flank in the south. Make sure you aren’t exposed and divert them away from the bluff if you can; if you look like you’re going to be overrun, give the signal,” he turned to Bull next, “there’s a weak spot near the ground level – that natural stepladder we saw earlier? Set up near there in case they find it and try to do this the easy way. Go.” 

The three squared themselves and shot off in the directions Lip indicated without a word. “You two,” he said, “follow me.” 

They crept along the edge of the inside stricture until Lip pointed at a shallow crevice. “George, you stay here. Frank and I are going to be here,” he pointed out at a short foundation boulder and then over on the other side of his position that was covered in thick brush, “and here. Give us the signal if you see movement.” 

“Aye-aye, sir,” George dropped down into the nook, which came up to knees and allowed a perfect natural cover for his height with the solid dirt and rock wall that he could just see around on either direction. 

They waited. 

Spats of gunfire broke out now and again from the South – no doubt Skinny and Pat keeping the line – and then George heard someone unfamiliar very clearly yell “fuck me!” from the direction that Bull was hiding in. 

“One down, who-the-fuck-knows-how-many left,” he said and huddled in closer to himself. Almost immediately he sprawled back out because the heat created by pulling his limbs in was practically unbearable. He was already sweating so much it felt like he had a damned waterfall running down his back. He licked his lips and grimaced; dirt and salt did not a good taste make. 

_How the hell did they fight in this heat? I feel like I’m liquefying from the inside out; like one of those creepy wax figures at Madame Tussauds. Here lies George Luz; a man of many faces because his real one melted away._ He wiped ineffectively at his hairline, pushing his helmet up to keep the moisture from getting in his eyes. No wonder they’re all such grumpy bastards. 

A hint of movement had him leaning away from sight and forgetting – mostly – about how badly he wanted to throw himself into the ocean to cool down and eventually he could see three guys shooting off in different directions, probing the line for the best offensive. He looked over at Frank and indicated one coming in his direction when the other glanced up. Lip he couldn’t see through the brush, but gave the signal anyway, hoping the other man could still see him. 

Unfortunately, two things happened at once. 

A flurry of fire set off the southern position abruptly and the Marine sneaking up on Frank cut back in a different direction at the beginning of the gunfire, managing to take Frank out completely. George could just hear him reluctantly surrendering when the Marine in question turned, craned his head up and looked George dead in the eye. 

“Well, fuck,” he said and started abandoning his position almost before the enemy started sprinting toward the bluff. 

He scrambled up to the next tier of ledges and followed the narrow trail around to the side furthest from the direction that the Marine was coming from. _Might as well fall back and protect the flag_ , he thought; something that was compounded by his ability to see what looked like a now small group of sitting soldiers in the South. _Looks like they took each other all out._

The nearby sound of footsteps froze him for a moment, before he wedged himself behind the nearest rock outcropping and steadied his rifle out, listening for anything to indicate the Marine was close. 

“Come on,” he barely breathed. A blessed breeze brushed by as he waited, warm, but moving air was infinitely preferable to still humidity and then the slightest sound of rustling fabric caught his ear. 

Unfortunately, it came from behind him. 

George spun around, pointing the rifle in the opposite direction right as the Marine rounded the side of the bluff with his own lifted. They blinked at one another for a moment. 

“Bang?” George said eventually. 

The Marine’s lips quirked into a subdued smile and he lowered his rifle. “Guess we’re both out, huh?” He said. 

George lowered his too. “Yeah, I don’t think that would’ve ended well for us.” 

The Marine eyed him then stuck out his hand. “I’m Jay.”

“George,” he said, shaking the offered hand. 

“So, are you guys Infantry or…”

“Airborne, actually.”

“Well, that one Sergeant of yours – real short? angry looking? – was nuts; we had him cut off and surrounded and he got three guys before we could take him out.”

George smirked. “Sounds about right.” Good for Johnny. 

“I thought Bill was gonna lose it,” Jay chuckled, shaking his head. 

George opened his mouth – to ask who Bill was maybe, or to say that their Bill would’ve actually lost it, complete with outrageous Philly accent – when he was rudely cut off by a voice above them saying “ _goddamnit!_ ” way to loudly for a supposed military training exercise. He and Jay looked at one another and then frog marched themselves up to the top of the bluff where the flag was held. 

Standing there was a lone Marine, short, a little stocky, with his hand halfway outstretched toward said flag, rifle slung over his shoulder and another one pointed at his back. 

“This blows,” the Marine whined at Jay. 

“That’s Bill,” Jay said to George, disappointed amusement on his face. 

“That’s Prince Charming, but for copyright purposes we have to call him Shifty,” George said, “say hello to the nice Marines, Shifty.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Shifty dutifully replied, keeping his gun aimed. 

George grinned. “So, I think we’ll chalk that up as a win for us.” 

“Goddamnit,” Bill muttered again and dropped his hand. 

_That was kind of fun_ , George conceded, half listening as Shifty asked Bill if he was okay because he saw him trip getting up the bluff, while Bill stared at him incredulously, _too bad it’s hot as hell’s sauna out here. Otherwise it'd be kinda nice._

“No, seriously,” Bill asked, voice going up an octave as he stared at Shifty’s earnest face, “who the hell _are_ you?” 

George had a feeling that he’d find that out soon enough. 

\- - - - - -

**That Night**

Leckie was reciting Shakespeare. 

Look, Runner was used to Leckie’s random ass bouts of classic literature regurgitation. You do not know a guy for years and not get used to his weird habits, okay? Most of the time it was kind of entertaining; trying to guess what long-winded novel from the 1800’s he was quoting. Hoosier and him had actually started a game – Leckie being none the wiser – they called _Dickens or Dostoevsky_ whenever Leckie got particularly bitter sounding. That generally pissed him off enough to claw him out of his funk, if for no other reason than to loudly tell them that obviously it wasn’t fucking Dostoevsky, can’t you recognize Tolstoy when you hear it? Runner and Hoosier generally gave themselves points for getting the fact that it was Russian correct. 

But Shakespeare. Shakespeare was the worst. The only time Leckie quoted Shakespeare it was the tragedies – _Hamlet_ was featured a lot, even Runner had had to read that one in school – and it usually coincided with one of Leckie’s darker moods. For the last twenty minutes, he’d been watching while Leckie got progressively quieter and more despondent. And granted – no one wanted to march out into the middle of the island, in full gear, for a night exercise that was probably going to nosedive into absurd when the officers started arguing strategy, but at least it was at night, which meant slightly cooler temperatures and lower humidity. 

After a while, it was the little things that mattered. 

“Hey, Lucky,” Runner smacked at Leckie’s arm beside him, “you alright?” 

“ _When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools_ ,” Leckie intoned gravely as an answer. 

Hoosier’s head whipped around from where he’d been marching in front of Runner. “Jesus Christ.” 

Chuckler, never one to be left out, glanced around at all three of them. “What? What happened?” 

Hoosier gave Runner a Look. No one was fond of Hoosier’s Looks. They tended to followed by some soul-crushing insight salted with enough dry sarcasm that the recipient was picking shards of it out of the skin for days afterward. “When did he start doing Shakespeare?” 

“Not long.” 

“Guys? Hello? What’s going on?” Chuckler asked, barely managing to keep his big feet from tripping up because of he was twisting his body into pretzels to see all of them and was promptly ignored by Hoosier anyway. 

The blond turned his attention to Leckie. “What about this is worthy of King fucking Lear?”

 _Fuck me_ , Runner groaned internally. The last time Leckie had started sprouting Lear was when he was rambling about the 1001 Ways He Was Going to Kill Larkin. 

Leckie narrowed his eyes. “You’ve read _King Lear_?” 

Hoosier narrowed his right back. “You going to answer my damn question?”

“You okay, buddy?” Chuckler’s concerned voice broke through the stare down going on around them and instantly made both Leckie and Hoosier back down. None of them were capable of holding out against Chuckler when he sounded like that. Hoosier actually made an effort to emote, Leckie smoothed out his prickles and Runner refused to acknowledge to anyone but himself how stupid he got when he heard that tone in Chuckler’s voice; as if he was one of Pavlov’s damn dogs salivating at the sound of a fucking bell. It was embarrassing. 

( _Sid, when he was with them, used to fold like a wet paper bag the second Chuckler even looked at him with an inkling of care on his face. It was kind of hilarious._ )

“I’m fine,” Leckie bit out. 

“You ain’t fine,” Hoosier muttered, but didn’t push. 

“You know it’s fine if –” Chuckler’s helpful support was cut off by Stone falling back to their position and where he gave them all a stern look, jaw working on his gum. 

“Cut the chatter, okay? Captain isn’t in the mood for it tonight,” he said, not without sympathy. 

The Captain. Captain Ewell was some hopped-up Annapolis grad that already thought he knew more than anyone else. Rumor had it that he’d sat well behind the line for most of the war, but was given a command now because of the all-hands-on-deck nature of the new venture. He lived in some kind of hellish middle ground of being temperamental, close-minded and condescending but without the backbone to actual lead and make decisions. The worst of two worlds as Chuckler had put it the other day. 

Leckie’s face spasmed at the mention of Ewell.

 _Oh, good Christ_ , Runner thought; he exchanged dubious looks with Chuckler. Maybe this had more in common with the Larkin thing than he first imagined. 

“Sure thing, Lieutenant,” Chuckler answered for all of them. 

Stone left after a lingering look at Leckie as if trying to impart some kind of steadying measure through osmosis alone. 

“What did you do?” Runner whispered to Leckie once Stone was out of earshot. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Leckie hissed back at him. 

“Bullshit.” 

“Guys,” Chuckler gave them a Look of his own over his shoulder, “later, okay?” 

They both shut up and Chuckler gave a little nod in response, approving of their obedience or whatever. Leckie peeked over at Hoosier and then huffed when the other man kept his gaze firmly in front of him. 

I’m friends with imbeciles, Runner thought, shaking his head. And then nearly walked right into Hoosier’s back when the line abruptly came to a stop. 

“What the fuck?” 

His question went unanswered and the whole company stood around like jackasses until news came down the line that the Captain had gotten turned around in the faltering light and was off course for their rendezvous with the Airborne unit they were supposed to be meeting. 

“Who needs a good first impression anyway,” Runner said, which earned him an amused smile from Chuckler and a grimace from Leckie. Hoosier looked ready to beat the Captain with the butt of his rifle if he happened to see him passing by. 

“I told you it wasn’t my fault,” Leckie said, disposition perked up now that his nemesis of the week was brought low, “hubris is a nasty bastard.” 

Runner had to roll his eyes at that. “Slow down, Killer.”

“Already, let’s move! Fall out!” Stone reappeared down the slowly restarting line; as he passed, he reached out and knocked a fist on Leckie’s arm, “Glad you’re feeling better, Leckie,” he said and marched away again. 

Runner swept an arm out. “After you, Lucky.” 

Leckie lost the smirk and shoved Runner a bit, but the Shakespeare stayed stowed away for the rest of the night, which was good enough for him. 

\- - - - - -

One of the hardest things Harry had ever done was writing Kitty and telling her that his discharge wasn’t in the cards after all and he was being redeployed to the Pacific. A part of him was glad he wouldn’t be there to see the tears and another – much bigger – part of him was indescribably sorry that he couldn’t see her face in front of him and wipe the tears away himself. And angry. So, so angry. Angry enough that he’d nearly decked Nix when he pulled him aside to tell him the unhappy news. 

“We’ll get you home to her, Harry,” Nix had said, voice unusually soft, but with a steel bite to it that spoke volumes about how serious he was. 

“You’re the optimist now?” He lashed out, still trying to calm down. 

Nix shrugged. “Has Dick ever let you down before?” 

Something about the way he said that set off a single alarm bell in his mind and the worst of the livid rage drained out of him. He turned his full attention to Nix and took a deep breath. “No,” he drug a hand through his hair for a moment and then dropped it, feeling calmer as Nix stood there watching him warily, “no, you and Dick haven’t disappointed me yet.” 

A small flash of surprise had crossed Nix’s face at that, dark eyebrows lifting slightly, before the emotion dissipated off his features as if it’d been a figment of Harry’s imagination. “Well, I guess you’re stuck with us a little longer anyway. I know we aren’t as pretty as Kitty…”

Harry had snorted. “No shit.” Then he paused, as if to think about it and wiggled his eyebrows to break the somber atmosphere further. “Ron, on the other hand…” and made one of this ridiculous growling noises that men sometimes did thinking it was funny or sexy or who the hell knew what. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Nix said, but he was laughing as he said it, so Harry figured all was right in the world for a while. 

Now, one surprise promotion later, he was stationed on this shitty little island in the middle of who knew where and listening to this bullshit and wanted to go slam his hand into the nearest coconut tree. Instead, he stared dumbly at the Lieutenant relaying the information to him and wished he didn’t notice how resigned said Lieutenant was about it all. 

“He left.” 

“Yes, sir,” the Lieutenant, Stone he’d said his name was, confirmed. 

“Just…up and left.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Harry closed his eyes, told himself to breath and tried again. “I don’t suppose he said why he was leaving his position?” 

Stone sighed – quietly, but that was definitely a sigh – and answered. “He said that, according to the map, he was sure there was a better position on the western side of the hill and that he could ambush the enemy from there. So, he took the third platoon and…did that. Sir.” 

“And did anyone point out to him that the western side of the hill was where the enemy’s machine gun nest was located?” 

Stone nodded. “It was mentioned, sir. But the Captain insisted that there was a shortcut that would circumvent the nest.” 

“A shortcut. A _shortcut_ that would _circumvent_ the _machine gun nest_.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Harry desperately wanted to look over at Buck to confirm that he was actually hearing the same shit he was, but thought it’d be unfair to the Lieutenant if the two Army officers looked like they were having some kind of silent conversation. It wasn’t his fault his CO was an idiot; before he’d been sent to fetch the man, Buck had actually had pretty high praise for the Lieutenant’s 1st platoon who had worked well with Easy’s 2nd. Together, the two platoons had managed to flank the enemy line and capture their own objective. 

“Right,” Harry took his helmet off and resisted the urge to beat his head against it, “well, when the Captain shows back up, tell him that Major Winters will want to see, alright?” 

“Yes, sir,” Stone sagged a bit, relieved that he wasn’t the one getting the dressing down in the Captain’s stead. 

“Dismissed.” 

Stone saluted and left to rejoin his men. Harry brought his helmet up to his face after he was gone and screamed his frustration into it. 

“Hey, don’t try to suffocate yourself now,” Buck said, good-natured because he got to work with actual competence today. “You’ve made it this far; be a shame to go out via helmet asphyxia.”

“He’s Sobel,” Harry took the helmet away, and met Buck’s questioning eyes, “he’s the Marine version of Herbert fucking Sobel.” 

“I’ll take your word for it,” Buck said. 

“God, wait until I tell Dick. He’s going to lose it.” 

Buck’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “That bad, huh?” 

“What? No one told you about him?” 

“I got the impression he was a ghost better left exercised.” 

Harry barked out a laugh at that. “You’re not wrong,” he waved a hand, “go on. I’ll finish up here; wait and see if the fucker shows up after all.” 

Buck clapped him on the back – a little heavier handed than necessary; Harry wasn’t sure that Buck ever really lost the athlete’s idea of the stronger the better – grinned and turned on his heel to meet back up with his capable ducklings and their new friends. 

_Dear Kitty,_ he composed in his head once he was alone, _the fucking idiots followed us to the Pacific. It’s good to know that blatant stupidity isn’t only a preview of Army officers._

_Dear Kitty, it’s too hot and sand is everywhere and yesterday I woke up to a goddamned crab staring at me from five inches away._

_Dear Kitty, I miss you more than I thought was physically possible. Why am I even here why can’t I be with you why can’t just come **home –**_

_Dear Kitty,_ he began again after taking a minute to breathe, _things could be worse, I guess. The Marine’s are sick of it, but the rice is a nice change of pace for us and the hooch is an interesting new terror we’ve all encountered; you’d probably like it actually. The sun keeps Bastogne far enough away that things seem brighter even if we know it’s only a surface glow. I miss you. I miss you every day and even though I’m beyond joyed that you’re not here, I still wish you were anyway. I love you._

He looked up and saw a tall blond man walking toward him, nose slightly turned up and disdainful expression on his finely featured face. Stone was trailing after him with an aggressively neutral look on his own. Right. Pavuvu. The war. Making sure he (and the rest of Easy) got home at the end of it. Dealing with this asshole. 

He grinned, making sure to show all of his teeth with he did so. The man’s steps paused slightly when he noticed it. Good. 

“Captain Ewell, I presume?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was "this blows" a thing that actual human beings said in 1945? I really doubt it. Am I changing that line? Nope.


	5. IV. September 2-3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait; I've been busy and this chapter kicked my ass on top of it. But there's some levity in this, so hopefully that makes up for it a little. 
> 
> All mistakes/typos are mine (and accidental) and all of your support means the world to me! 💗

**September 2, 1945  
Pavuvu**

The first case of Malaria was a stubbornly uncooperative Joe Toye. 

“I’m fine,” Toye wheezed, looking like death incarnated. 

Gene tried to let his face say how ridiculous he thought that sentiment was. “It’s ninety-two degrees and you’re wearing a scarf,” he pointed out dryly. 

Toye’s glower increased and he wiped sweat out of his eyes with a shaky hand. “There’s a cool breeze.” 

_May the lord save us all from persistent paratroopers_ , he thought. “Malaria isn’t a joke,” he stressed, “it can kill you.” 

Toye made a face – despite the pale clamminess of it – that conveyed perfectly his thoughts on the idea of a disease killing him when a war couldn’t. Gene refrained, barely, from pointing out that the thousands of WWI soldiers who caught the Flu in 1918 probably thought the same thing before subsequently dying of it. “You can either take your damn medicine and rest or I’ll have you shipped back to the Solomon’s for treatment.” 

Toye’s eyes narrowed. “That’s bullshit!” He said, dissolving into hacking breaths halfway through the exclamation. 

Gene rose an eyebrow at him. “Your choice.” 

Toye growled. “Fucking fine,” he tore off his helmet and then almost dropped it with how bad his hands were trembling, “I’ll go fucking sleep or something. Fuck.” He marched back towards the tents Easy had claimed as barracks, so unsteady that he nearly tripped five steps into the trek.

Gene glanced over at Spina. “Ralph, would you –” 

The other medic nodded with a wry expression. “I got it, Doc,” he assured and moved to shore up Toye’s gait so the soldier didn’t nosedive into the dirt on the way. 

“Thanks, Doc,” Guarnere said, clapping him on the back briefly, “stubborn bastard wasn’t listenin’ to me.” 

Gene nodded to the other man and moved down the line, keeping an eye out for anything out of ordinary. He stopped beside Luz for a second when he saw the uncharacteristically troubled look on the technician’s face as he stared after Toye’s departure. 

“He’ll be fine, long as he does what he’s suppose to,” Gene commented. 

Luz snapped around to look at him and even gave a pale imitation of his normal care-free grin. “Yeah, no, of course,” he laughed weakly, “only, it’s the whole ‘do what he’s suppose too’ part of it that’s got me worried.” 

“Joe Toye is not going to be taken out by a goddamned mosquito,” Malarkey cut in before Gene could say anything else, “are you nuts?” 

Luz sighed, sounding grievously pained in the process. “Did I say that, Don? No, I did not, okay?”

“Well, you –” 

Gene moved on. 

Most of the men were in pretty good spirits, all things considered. It was hot, but Toye hadn’t been lying about the breeze which cooled the sweat and made maneuvers almost bearable. Better yet, rumor had it that the short list for who Easy was going to be working with going forward was all but finalized. The current line-up was gearing up to do a test run mission to see how a completely blended unit operated and the guys were happy to all be back working together. 

Surreptitiously, Gene glanced over the Marines standing around on the other side of Easy, trying to commit faces to his memory. Names would come later when he had an actual list in front of him, but for now, the least he could do was familiarize himself with cadence and voice and bodies. 

“Hey, Gene? You lost?” 

Gene broke out of his contemplation of the lazily waving hand of one of said Marines, trying to pinpoint why it was sticking out in his mind, and glanced over at Babe who was staring at him questioningly, hopeful little smile on his face. 

“What?” 

Babe shrugged, but a bit of a blush crept up his neck. “You were staring at nothin’, looked like. Thought I’d see what the fuss was about is all.” 

“Ain’t no fuss,” Gene murmured, trying not to track the flush too closely, “What about you? You still feel alright?”

“You mean sick? Nah, I’m good,” Babe’s mouth pulled open in a quicksilver smile that lit up the angles of his face and gave him the youthful shine that he’d had pre-The Forest From Hell. 

“Try an’ keep it that way, huh?” Gene tried to make it a stern warning; but his voice pitched lower and gentler halfway through as it had become wont to do in the last six months, “and none of that tough it out bullshit if you can’t, understand?”

“I swear on my life,” Babe recited dutifully, giving him a crooked salute in the process. 

“Swear on someone else’s,” Gene couldn’t help up say, letting a brief lift of his own lips show that he wasn’t serious, “I don’t trust a one of ya with your own lives.” 

A chorus of boos and protests by the guys within earshot rose up. “We aren’t that stupid,” Muck objected loudly and was answered by Penkala’s sarcastic: “You swam across the Niagara, you are _exactly_ that stupid.” All of which descended into a friendly bitchfest that solidified the spot of contentment that Gene had been desperately nursing since Austria. 

Babe’s face softened and his smile turned into a private thing not meant for outside company. “I’ll watch them, Doc,” he promised, accent going languid and rounding out the vicious corners of it, “if any of them start to look bad, I’ll send ‘em your way, okay?” 

“Thanks, Edward. I appreciate it,” Gene said, schooling his face to neutrality as Babe’s morphed into horrified indignation. 

“Is that a thing now? You’re not funny, Gene!” Babe called out as he resumed his walk of the line.

Once he was sure no one was watching, he ducked his head and let the smile trapped there bloom onto his face. 

Today was a going to be a good day. 

\- - - - - - 

After two weeks of these joint briefings, Eddie was getting used to the Airborne officer’s personalities. It helped that he could honestly say that he respected and liked most of them. And because he could say this, it was with a kind of certainty that he could say he thought Captain Speirs was one wrong word away from gutting someone. 

“He’s a danger to the men,” Speirs said slowly, a blank look to his face that Eddie had realized early on was an ill sign of things to come, “he’s not capable of leading a goddamn mess line let alone a company in battle.” 

Eddie glanced over at Andy. He was sitting on the edge of the table the Major had all the plans for training, rosters lists and battle plans on and his expression was somber; lips pursed and eyebrows darting sharply down between his eyes. Major Winters, standing behind said desk, didn’t look anymore happy about the situation than Andy did. 

“I’m aware of that, Ron,” Winter’s said, steady tone sliding a little into exasperation. “And there’s nothing I can do about it.” 

Speirs’ eyes blazed, handsome face twisting in wrath. “Why not?”

“Come on, Ron, you know better than to ask that,” Nixon said from his perch on the chair opposite Andy in front of the desk, his boots kicked up on the corner, “it’s a bunch of red tape, bureaucratic bullshit. Plus, he’s a Marine and the higher ups are still twitchy about relieving any Marine of his command no matter what the hierarchy of the unit is.”

Speirs had the mulish look of a man about to dig in to his convictions when Andy spoke. “I’ve already lodged a transfer request to the Colonel. We’re waiting to hear back.”

The calm, steadiness of Andy’s voice cooled a bit of the righteous fury left on Speirs’ face. Nixon’s shoulders dropped with the tension and smiled drolly at his fellow Captain. “If you want him gone that badly,” he mused, “you could always wait for Harry to kill him. I’d say you’ve got three days, tops.” 

Eddie snorted at that. Andy glanced over at him and Eddie felt his own tension and sense of not belonging unravel at the beaming smile the blond gave him. When he glanced away, he accidentally caught Nixon’s eyes and straightened up at the calculating gleam he saw in the dark eyes as they bounced back between Andy and him. Eddie allowed him the look and nodded when Nixon eventually tipped his own head in acknowledgment. 

“Three?” Harry scoffed, waving a hand, “That arrogant fucker’s got until I see him next. And if I can figure out how to orchestrate a lightning strike, then not even that long.” 

Even Speirs cracked a smile at that imagery. Eddie was genuinely fond of Harry Welsh; the two of them had been working together to figure out assignments and who was fit for duty where for the last week. Over that time, he’d learned three things about the soldier: that he could not give less of a fuck about military tradition, he could drink Marine rotgot without grimacing and that he had a fiancée back home that was apparently the reason the sun rose every morning. 

(Eddie would argue the sun thing, but he had a disquieting feeling that he probably looked the exact same shade of besotted whenever he thought about Andy and anything that implied something beyond this godforsaken war, so he kept silent and let Harry wax poetic.)

“We’ll see what Colonel Densmore says and go from there,” Winter’s said once the laughing had died down, but the dire look on his face had dissipated as well, “tell the men to rest up; we’ve got a full battle maneuver tomorrow.” 

Winters dismissed them and Eddie fell into step with Andy, shoulders brushing gently, as they made their way back to the other side of the island. A few of their fellows called out to them as they passed – Eddie gave a mock stern look at Leyden where he was sneaking up on one of the new replacements with a bottle of something dark and foreboding and didn’t stop looking until Leyden’s arms dropped and he slinked off, muttering under his breath – but on the whole it was a quiet walk through the encampment. The sun was half-set and the sky was lit up in a variety of colors and the wind was cool enough to take the edge out of the blistering heat still permeating the air. 

Once they made it to Andy’s quarters, Eddie all but collapsed on the bunk and leaned back against the support pole that was situated behind him. Andy took off his soft cover and the dropped in on his trunk and rounded the object to stand beside the series of maps laid out on the rickety table in the middle of the space. Eddie, always entranced by the graceful, deliberate movements of Andy’s body, watched silently; waiting for the other man to break the comfortable hush. 

“You know, I think this might actually work?” Andy looked up and met Eddie’s eyes, an excitement that had been waning for years renewed in his eyes. 

Eddie returned the enthusiasm with his own agreement. “They’re good guys.” 

Andy chuckled. He tapped against the top map – finger hitting a Japanese town’s name that Eddie thought unpronounceable – and then hummed thoughtfully. “I don’t think Nixon likes me much,” he continued, sounding more puzzled than anything. 

Eddie couldn’t help his bark of laughter and Andy’s bemused expression lit up with familiar warmth at the sound. Eddie beckoned him over; Andy raised a brow, but secured the tent’s entrance and then made his way over to the cot. He bent a knee onto the thin springs and twisted his body until he was laying with his back nestled up against Eddie’s chest with a sigh. Instinctively, Eddie wound an arm around the other man’s hip, dipping his index finger just under the waist of his fatigues and idly running over the soft skin there. Andy sighed again, longer this time settled in, the hard planes of his body going languid. 

“Nixon,” Eddie said after taking a few minutes to relax, “doesn’t not like you.” 

“Double negatives don’t inspire confidence, Eddie,” Andy said sardonically.

“I mean that it ain’t your fault. You can’t help being an exceptionally good looking man,” Eddie walked the fingers on his free hand down Andy’s arm to further make his point. 

Andy glanced back at Eddie, confused. “While I appreciate the compliment,” he squeezed Eddie’s wandering hand, “what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Winters lately.” 

“Dick? You know we –” 

“I got you,” he cut him off, “the men, the mission, assigned to pull a unit together and keep the brass from fucking it all up too badly. I know.” 

“Then what?” 

“For the record,” Eddie said, “I’m glad you and Winters get along so well. Makes everything better; I know you were worried when word got out that we were going to be working with the Army so close.” 

“But…?”

“But I don’t think Nixon’s used to sharing that space with someone else too often. Especially not someone like you.” 

Andy’s expression cleared. “You think…Dick and Nixon are…” he gestured to Eddie and him with a wave of his hand. 

Eddie shrugged. “Don’t know,” and he didn’t; suspected certainly; the way the two of them moved around one another and caught the end of each other’s thoughts was almost seamless. That kind of awareness of another person wasn’t totally foreign in platonic friendships – especially in the fog of war – but there was something about the way Nixon tracked Winters when they were in a room together or the way Winters instinctively turned towards Nixon no matter the situation; the bleeding edges to their bodies that steered his mind in that direction. 

“If they aren’t,” Eddie hedged, “then they want to be. I think.” 

“Hmm,” Andy turned to face forward again, leaning even more of his weight on Eddie’s chest and voice going a little fuzzy; the day finally catching up with him, “is it shitty of me to find that reassuring?” 

“No,” Eddie buried his face in Andy’s hair and closed his eyes, “it ain’t shitty to be glad not to be alone.” 

They sat there for a long time. 

\- - - - - -

**September 3, 1945**

“He always do that?” 

Joe snapped out of his daze and glanced over at the Marine who was sitting a couple feet away, leaning up against a rock and staring out at the ocean. Joe frowned. 

“What?” 

The redhead pointed the pencil in his hand outward, nodding in the direction at the same time. “Your buddy,” he said. 

Joe looked back out at the beach even though he already knew who the Marine was talking about. The two days of light worker they’d been given in preparation for some big training exercise on the 5th was great; no question, but Joe had woken up today, gone to the beach to have his morning cigarette in peace and stumbled into the horror show that was Web mostly naked and wet from some invigorating morning swim or whatever the fuck. He’d been sitting here dumbstruck ever since and mostly wanting to punch himself because of it. 

“He’s not my buddy,” Joe bit out.

The Marine looked dubious, but didn’t push. Fuck, how long had he been sitting there watching Joe make an ass of himself? “Those aren’t regulation, are they?” He asked. 

With all of the willpower he possessed, he resisted looking at the blue swimming shorts Web was wearing. “No,” he said, “they aren’t.” 

“So, he bought some because he was coming to the Pacific?” 

“His parents sent them.” 

The redhead blinked. “Really? Why?” 

“I don’t know, they’re rich. Rich people are fucking weird.” 

The Marine’s faces twisted in offense for a brief moment before smoothing back out. “He married?” 

Joe actually felt the scowl rush to his face. “What the hell do you care?” 

“I don’t,” the Marine shrugged, “but they might. If you tell them he’s single and got money, he might not get off the island.”

“What’s that supposed –” Joe followed the Marine’s hand in the direction he swept it and saw a group of three women – nurses or other volunteers, Joe didn’t know which and couldn’t tell from their drab outfits – who were lounging on the sand and passing a bottle of something around while staring fairly intently at Web. He watched as Web bent down to pick something out of the surf and all three of the women’s heads tilted in unison at the movement. 

_I’m gonna kill him_ , Joe clenched his teeth, _and then I’m gonna throw myself in the fucking ocean and let one of precious sharks eat me for good measure._

Joe looked back at the Marine whose sharp features were now regarding him with a degree of pity, of all the damned things. “Web can take care of himself,” he muttered, sounding defensive even to his own ears. 

A whistle caught his attention and a thin man appeared behind the Marine, stepped out of the landscape and taking up residence on the other side of his comrade. “Ya didn’t tell me you was going to see a show, Sledgehamma’,” the man said, peering out at Web and then cutting his light eyes over to the other Marine. 

The redhead threw an apologetic look over his shoulder at Joe, sighing heavily as he did. “Snaf, don’t be a dick.” 

The new Marine looked up and over at Joe, a slow curling beam of a smile stretching across his face. “That one yours?” The tone he used was of a butter-wouldn’t-melt variety. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Joe growled automatically, then when the words actually caught up to his brain, a terrifying mix of dread and shame washed over him, “ _no_ ,” he amended, “he’s in my company alright?” 

Both Marines were now staring at him with identical looks of disbelief. The redhead’s at least was more congenial; the brunette had entirely too much half-concealed glee in his for Joe to be comfortable. 

“Christ,” Tab’s voice sounded on the other side of Joe, “what’s he even doing?” 

“How should I know?” Joe exploded, rounding on Talbert, “He’s part fucking mermaid or something.”

Tab rose a single eyebrow at his outburst. “Well, it’s time to come ashore. We’ve got a planned march in an hour.” 

“No shit,” Joe said, “what do you want me to do about it?” 

Tab grinned. “Go get your man, Lieb,” he waved a hand imperiously, “we got work to do.” 

Joe stared at the other man incredulous, before throwing his hands up. “ _Fine_ ,” he dropped his ignored cigarette, stomping on it in the shifting dirt and then trooped down to the where Web was now doing one of those ridiculous contemplative stare-offs with nothing that he was so fond of. 

“Web,” he called when he was close enough, he reached out a hand to grab him, but stared at all the skin and decided that would be a mistake of epic proportions, “hey, _Web_.” 

“I heard you,” Web pushed a damp tendril of hair away from his face and turned to look at Joe, “what is it?” 

The sun was clearly fucking with him because somehow Web’s eyes actually appeared more blue than normal and they already stuck out against his pale skin and dark hair as it was. “We’ve got a march to go on, so let’s go,” he said, voice a little breathy to his own absolute disgust. 

Web, as per usual, was oblivious. His eyes widened. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was that late,” he turned back to the ocean for a moment and then picked up the discarded button down where he’d apparently dropped it and shrugged the open garment on. It didn’t really help Joe’s sanity much. “Sorry, we can go now.” 

“I’m sure everyone’s glad to have your permission,” he said, but kept the bite out of it and by Web’s easy shrug, the other man could tell that he wasn’t trying for a fight with it. 

“Ladies,” Web said and nodded at the three women still sitting there. There was nothing flirtatious or warm in his voice, a standard greeting, but all three women beamed at him as they approached. 

“You out here every morning, handsome?” The boldest of the three, long blond hair falling over her shoulders and eyes green enough to inspire poets into verse, asked with a wink. Her companions stifled laughter around her. 

Joe glanced over at Web who was now blushing to the roots of his hair. “Uh –” 

“Try to contain yourselves, huh,” Joe offered and pulled Web by them by the flap of his shirt. Once they were beyond the women’s position, Joe heard all three of them break down in joyful peals of amusement. 

“Joe, are you –” Web had that knotted look on his face, the one that said he was putting things in order and Joe did not have the requisite patience to deal with that at the moment. 

He let go of Web when they reached Tab’s unchanged position. “He’s all yours,” Joe said and stomped past everyone still gathered on the shorelines. 

“What did I do _now_?” Web whined at Tab behind him. 

Joe managed not to spit something out in response to that, and when he glanced backward he caught the eye of the second Marine who waved at him in delight. 

_What have I done to deserve this?_ He slowed as he reached his tent, mind still seeing that little quirked smile Web graced him with when he got to his side. _I’m such a fucking idiot._

It was going to be a long day. 

\- - - - - -

“Look what I found on the beach!” Chuckler announced when he walked into their tent. 

No one even looked up at him, which – to be fair – he had been anticipating when he did it. That, of course, didn’t stop them from being smartasses. 

“Is it sand?” Hoosier drawled, eyes closed from where he was laid out on his bunk. 

Runner, who was cleaning his rifle, added: “Crabs?”

“The will to live?” Lucky finished off with a bittersweet smirk where he was washing his face. 

His tone was bleeding sarcasm, but Chuckler filed the comment away to be potentially visited at a later time in case in was crouched in some deeper truth that Leckie was masking. “Nope,” he said, keeping his own tone light, he turned and pulled the man through the entrance where he’d been loitering, “ta-da!” 

Runner was the first to reluctantly look up to see what the big deal was and almost immediately he started grinning. “Holy shit,” he said in between the laughs setting his rifle down and clamoring to his feet. 

“Hey, Runner,” Sid said, fidgeting a little on his feet; accent stronger than Chuckler remembered. But then, he’d been back among Alabama’s finest for years by now, so that probably wasn’t too surprising. 

“I’ll be goddamned,” Lucky said, dropping the raggedy towel on the little basin he’d set up in the back of the tent the first week back, “Johnny Reb, as I live and breathe,” he walked over and tugged the blond into a quick, fierce hug. 

They were joined by Hoosier, who actually was smiling gently for once, and clapped the southerner on the back. “Phillips, it’s good to see you.” 

“Same to you guys,” Sid answered, the uncertainty that Chuckler had saw the moment he recognized Sid drifting on the beach with the other new arrivals seemed to fall away from him in the face of a warm welcome. As if he’d been expecting a cold shoulder instead. 

“You get lost or something, Sid? What the hell are you doing back here?” Runner asked.

Sid shrugged, but his smile became wooden. “Got recalled, what with everything. Probably a good thing, I heard all y’all are hopeless without me,” he joked weakly. 

“What this old thing,” Runner gestured to his healed arm, “I wasn’t gonna go through the whole war and not get a Purple Heart; it was a calculated risk.” 

Lucky rolled his eyes. “Better savor it; it’s the only medal they’re going to give you.” 

“Yeah, fuck you too, Lucky,” Runner said, but the exchange had done it’s duty and kept the tension from ratcheting up with the knowledge of Sid’s home life getting broken up again. 

“I’m engaged,” Sid offered into the void. 

Runner whistled. Chuckler couldn’t help pulling him into a side hug. “That’s great, Sid!” 

“Guess that means your balls have finally dropped, huh?” Hoosier joked dryly, which sent a furious blush stealing up Sid’s neck and face. He shoved at Hoosier, who took it without retaliation, and was promptly gathered up under Lucky’s arm and steered over to the empty bunk next to his. 

“Well, don’t be tight lipped, what’s her name?” Leckie prodded. 

“Mary,” Sid said, scratching at the back of his neck, “here, I’ve got a picture.”

Chuckler watched Sid set his gear down and shift through his pack before pulling out a silver cigarette holder that he was using to protect the pictures of his family, and apparently fiancée now as well. 

Runner sat back down and gave Chuckler a look – he hated being loomed over – until he sat next to him. Runner knocked his fingers against the length of his arm consistently, clearly thinking about something. 

“Shitty,” he finally said, voice pitched low so that they other three wouldn’t hear him easily, “I didn’t think they’d be recalling anyone.” 

“Yeah,” Chuckler agreed, “at least he’s with us. Doesn’t have to learn a bunch of new assholes.” 

“Only the best old, worn in assholes for Sid.” 

Chuckler glanced over at Runner. The other man had taken to rubbing at the aforementioned scar the ran along his arm from the wound he’d gotten. Like always, it made Chuckler grip tightly to the nearest solid object to keep his own fingers from joining in the motion; not being around when Runner – and Hoos and Luck; though it was a different flavor from Runner’s, in a way that he avoided looking at for too long – got hit was one of his greatest regrets. Not even because he thought he could’ve saved them from it, but because they were a unit. His mind couldn’t really get past the idea that they were his and if they were going down, they should’ve gone down together. 

“Jesus,” Runner said, smile reappearing on his face, “he could be their fucking son.” 

“Huh?” 

Runner nodded to the others. “Look at them; Sid looks like he’s their bastard love child or something. It’s uncanny.” 

Chuckler looked. The three were standing there, Hoosier leaning on the closest support beam and Lucky gestured wildly about something to Sid who was sitting down and looking up at both of them with one of those almost bashful looks he got sometimes, and suddenly he could see what Runner meant. Sid’s loose curls looked like a mix of Lucky’s tight corkscrew ones and Hoosier’s sun-bleached blond stands; the blue eyes, similar build and the soft features that could be a combination of the two. The position didn’t help; they looked like two fathers explaining something to the rapt-faced son. 

He smiled. “Should I tell them or do you want too?” 

“We’ll wait,” Runner said instantly, so that Chuckler knew that Runner had been thinking about it, “pick the perfect time and start calling them Pops or something. Lucky’ll fucking die.” 

Chuckler – used to the ever-tighter circles that Lucky and Hoosier were winding themselves in around each other – thought that was a pretty good idea. Both of them needed getting out of their own heads sometimes and that would probably do it. Might even kick start something else in it’s place. 

It was worth a shot anyway. 

“I’ll let you pick when,” Chuckler said, relaxing into his seat and leaning a little into Runner’s side without thought and continuing to watch the scene in front of him with an air of contentment. And despite the rising heat of the day, Runner didn’t move.


End file.
